


As the days pass us by

by occasionally_lost



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Accidental Hair-pulling, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And also a cat!, COVID-19, Corona - Freeform, Depression, Don't Ask, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Modern Era, Multi, Mutual Pining, Ooops, Panic Attacks, Pillow Fights, Pining Enjolras, Pining Grantaire, Pining Idiots, Quarantine, References to Depression, Slow Burn, but like, ill forget to add tags as i go along, silly as hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23312377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occasionally_lost/pseuds/occasionally_lost
Summary: A whole bunch of the amis get quarantined in the apartment shared by Grantaire, Courf, and Jehan. Including Enjolras. Grantaire thinks he might actually loose it. Cue pining, a whole bunch of awkward conversations and two idiots in love.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 12
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Welcome to my first fic since 2017. Amazing what a little isolation-boredom can do, eh?  
> No but for real, yes, this is about corona and I'm trying to be as thoughtful as possible about it. But really, this is mostly the result of me starring down the barrel of being isolated with my parents for the unforeseeable future. I need some kind of escape. So uh, I hope you enjoy, if you do, you are very welcome to leave a comment, and if you don't like it, please leave a comment anyways. I thrive on attention, it doesn't even have to be positive! :)  
> Sidenote: I need a beta, more about that in the end notes but like if you're even a little bit good at this help me i can't figure out how to use cursive or formatting i'm desperate

On day one, he was so impatient he was practically bouncing off the walls, constantly on the verge of a mental breakdown and stressing everyone the fuck out. Normally, he could go weeks without feeling the need to even poke his head out the door, but knowing that he _couldn’t_ … It drove him crazy. 

On day two, he stayed in bed. 

“What’s the point”, he’d say when Courfeyrac asked him to join the group in the living room “it’s not like they’re going anywhere”. He laughed a joyless laugh, and when he stopped, Courfeyrac was gone. 

On day three, he baked bread. 

“It’s perfect! We have all the time in the world to do whatever! I’m going to become a bread-baking yogi” he exclaimed, causing Combeferre and Courfeyrac trade worried looks. He ignored them, taking another swig of whatever it was he found under the sink.

“An alcoholic bread-baking yogi, maybe” Courfeyrac muttered. Grantaire ignored him.  
It burned so nicely, he didn’t really care what it was. Plus, he trusted that someone would take it away if it was not something meant to be drunk. And if they didn’t… Well, win win. He coughed out another humourless laugh. 

On day four, he woke up with a headache. He turned to his alarm clock, its red light painfully bright. _3 pm,_ it taunted. _You’ve wasted another day._

“Joke’s on you,” Grantaire muttered back “there’s nothing left to waste.” and promptly went back to sleep. 

On day five, Jehan floated into his room, placed their signature featherlight kiss on Grantaire’s cheek to wake him up, and then mercilessly drew up the blinds. Harsh sunlight flooded his room, forcing him to face the mess. He groaned. 

“Get up and get showered. You’re being a part of my new poetry project today,” they said sweetly. Then, laughing, “If you’re not up in five I’m sending Enjolras to get you up, and he’s not going to be as nice as me.” Grantaire groaned and pushed his face into his pillow. 

Hanging out with Jehan all day actually turned out to be pretty nice, in the end. Grantaire just said few random words for Jehan to use in their poetry and spent the rest of the time braiding their hair, talking shit and even sketching a portrait of the focused expression they wore on their face while they wrote, the tip of their tongue just barely poking out, freckles stark against their almost translucent skin. Maybe he’d even turn it into a soft watercolour someday, it had the potential to be quite lovely. _Then again,_ he thought, _that’s hardly a testament to my skill. Any portrait of Jehan has the potential to be quite lovely._

On day six, he went to get a cup of coffee from the kitchen, trying to figure out how to keep his brain as occupied as possible without actually having to do anything. Lost in thought, he almost knocked Enjolras over while rounding the corner. 

“Oh! Uhm… Hey” he said eloquently. 

“Hey,” said Enjolras, taking a step back.  
Grantaire couldn’t look him in the eyes for longer than a moment at the time, the intensity of Enjolras’ gaze almost burning him. 

“Err… Sup?”

“So how are you-,” they started at once.  
Enjolras, polite as ever, gestured to him. 

“You start.” 

“Oh, uhh, what’s up?” said Grantaire, ever so eloquently. 

“I was just about to go back to my essay actually, I was just walking around a bit while taking a break. It’s important to remember to move throughout the day, especially now.” Somehow that sounded like a reprimand. Grantaire couldn’t read Enjolras’ expression. 

“Ah, Combeferre got to you too, then” Grantaire joked 

“Err… no?” Enjolras’ brow furrowed.  
The silence stretched out between them, painfully awkward. 

“Right, then,” Grantaire finally said, “I’ll let you get back to that essay of yours.” 

Enjolras nodded and moved past him.

“Good luck,” he added belatedly.

Enjolras turned around, question clear in his eyes. Grantaire gave an awkward little wave and cringed at himself. 

Having finally arrived in the kitchen, thankfully without any more incidents, Grantaire slammed his head into the counter next to the coffee pot. 

“Good morning, Grantaire” Combeferre said from the kitchen table. “Help yourself to some coffee, it’s still hot.” 

Grantaire poured himself a mug ( _Not paint water_ ). 

“Thanks, Ferre” 

Combeferre simply nodded. Grantaire took a moment to appreciate Combeferre’s steady calm and coffee-making abilities as he took a sip. 

“Why are there so many people here,” Grantaire complained, “can’t you be quarantined in your own homes?” 

Combeferre just shrugged. “That’s what happens when you decide to throw a five day party to celebrate someone coming home from abroad. At least we have our own clothes and toothbrushes. Could be worse.” 

Grantaire made a face. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But Courf had been gone for so long, we _had_ to throw the party!” 

“Almost a whole week,” Combeferre agreed. 

“Don’t turn sarcasm against me man, it’s all I have.” 

Combeferre just shrugged again and took a sip of his coffee. Grantaire decided that was his que to leave. 

He raised his cup as he walked by. “Cheers.” 

The worst part about seven people being stuck together in a three-bedroom apartment for god knows how long wasn’t the fact that it was crowded, Grantaire decided. It was the fact that he was stuck. He couldn’t relax, knowing that Enjolras was in his apartment, just meters away, at all times, doing god knows what. He was exhausted. 

Somehow, he felt homesick, even though he’d spent almost a week holed up in his room, in the first apartment he’d ever called home. A home, more than any of the places he’d lived at as a child could ever be. And yet… 

With a sigh, he flopped onto his bed and closed his eyes. _Good god,_ he thought, _this can’t be over quick enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! There used to be notes here. Now there aren't. What can I say, I'm a "preview?? we post now and die like men"'-kinda person. Oops.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting in the kitchen that, honestly, could have gone better.

On day seven, Grantaire was woken up by Cat (who also went by Mr. Snuffles, Beyonce, Wordsworth, Sergei, etc. - they never really managed to settle on a name) walking on him. This was such a common occurrence that, whilst he was frightened the first time, he now didn’t even open his eyes. All things considered, he could have been woken in a much ruder way, as his friends had threatened. And while Cat was adored by every person in the household, Grantaire was unsure that Cat felt the same way - he was remarkably unsociable, even for a cat. So Grantaire simply lay there, eyes still closed and enjoyed his presence. That is, until Cat decided to walk across his face, startling Grantaire and sending the cat sprinting out of his room. 

“See you in two weeks,” Grantaire muttered after him.

It was early still, the morning sun softly crept through his blinds and cast a soft orange light on his walls. More content than he’d been in weeks, he turned on his side and waited for sleep to come to him once more. 

It wouldn’t. He tossed and turned for about forty minutes before finally giving up and pulling out his sketchbook. Automatically, he started on a portrait of Eponine. He knew her features so well that he often sketched her to warm up. This time, he drew one of her rare, real smiles. Having finished that, he filled out the background with details, adding her work apron as the coffee shop she worked at started to take shape before his eyes. God, he missed her. And the heavenly mocca/caramel lattes she made only for him. 

“I have no idea how you drink that shit,” she’d tell him “it’s disgusting.” 

And Grantaire would look at her through his eyelashes with his best puppy-eyes. 

“You love me.” And then she’d smack him over the head with a towel. How he missed it. 

He’d usually come by a couple of hours before she closed, drink his extremely sweet coffee and sketch people walking by. Then, he’d help her clean up while they chatted about all the latest. It was a ritual worked out through months of trial and error trying to find time to just hang, and they were Grantaire’s favourite parts of the week. Between Eponine working herself through college and taking care of her little brother, her schedule was packed. And Grantaire, well, Grantaire had a lot of free time and was thankful she was willing to make an effort to keep him in her life despite him being a complete wreck. 

Sometimes he’d actually spend all those hours at the coffee shop silent and still just staring out the window. He wouldn’t even flinch when Eponine locked up and started cleaning, and she didn’t push him to talk about it. Instead, she’d gently pry the cup out of his hands and take him to her place, order pizza and watch some bad movie. He’d crash on the couch and he almost always felt better when he woke up. 

He let his eyes fall shut and leaned back on his pillow, letting the pencil slide out of his grip, holding back tears. Even though he missed her calming presence, he was thankful she wasn’t stuck here with all of them, having a hard enough time making ends meet without missing weeks of work and school. 

Eventually, he managed to roll out of bed and find a shirt off his floor that didn’t smell all that much (and what did a few paint stains matter, honestly?) and padded out into the kitchen in hopes of jump-starting his brain with some coffee. Instead, he found Enjolras at the kitchen table, angrily hammering away on his keyboard. 

Grantaire tried to ignore him, he really did. He wasn’t keen on repeating the awkwardness of their last conversation, and his _golden Apollo_ didn’t exactly seem to be in a pleasant mood. But this morning there was no considerate Combeferre to make coffee for him, and it took ages to brew. Finally, he couldn’t hold back anymore. After all, teasing Enjolras was what he did best. 

“Essay going well, I take it?” It wasn’t a mean remark, exactly, but his shit-eating grin didn’t really help in making it more pleasant. However, Enjolras barely looked up from his computer, and it took a minute for him to answer. 

“Not working on the essay… Feuilly’s boss is being a complete ass.” Enjolras brow furrowed deeper. 

“Yeah, well, what’s new,” asked Grantaire light-heartedly. Enjolras swiveled around in his chair, eyes ablaze.

“That he’ll fucking lose his job if he doesn’t come in, which he can’t, and I can’t believe he’s being punished for acting responsibly during a fucking _pandemic!_ Either way they won’t pay him anything as long as he’s not at work, and he doesn’t know how he’ll get by in the meantime. Of course, he would never even have mentioned it if Courf hadn’t practically dragged it out of him the other day, because he’s Feuilly!” Grantaire, taken aback by both Enjolras’ sudden intensity and the seriousness of the matter only managed to croak out an unintelligible

“Oh. I didn’t realise.” 

“Of course you didn’t, otherwise you wouldn’t have thrown this damn party to begin with.” Grantaire could see the realisation of what he’d said dawn on Enjolras’ face just as he comprehended it himself. 

“I didn’t mean-” Enjolras started

“Of course you didn’t. I didn’t _mean_ to fuck up Feuilly’s life, I guess I’m just contagious. And the party was optional, you know” Grantaire snapped, voice dripping with bitterness. He wasn’t really angry at Enjolras, he knew, but storming out seemed much easier than having to admit that everyone was stuck here, missing out on their work, lectures and social life because of him. He threw this crazy party, even though he’d heard the news, he’d just ignored it. And put them all at risk. God, he wanted to storm out! But more than that, he wanted his goddamn coffee. An uncomfortable silence stretched out between them. At last Enjolras cleared his throat. 

“It isn’t your fault that Feuilly’s boss is being an ass. We all chose to be here.” But the words came out flat, and Grantaire turned away, just in time to miss Enjolras’ cheeks turning a not-so-subtle shade of pink. 

“And I wanted to come.” he added, much quieter. Truth be told, Grantaire had no idea what to make of this, so he simply remained quiet, his back to Enjolras. Finally his coffee was ready to pour, and he stalked out of the kitchen, sensing Enjolras’ glare but refusing to acknowledge it as he walked by. 

At long last, he reached the safety of his own room, and the guilt came crashing over him in waves. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. _Although,_ he thought, _with his track record, it shouldn’t really come as a surprise._ He buried himself between the sheets again, screwing his eyes shut. He fucked up everyone’s lives for the foreseeable future, and he hadn’t even thought about offering to help them with anything. Meanwhile Enjolras was already taking action, probably writing angry letters to his representatives about fair wages and union rights. 

_Enjolras._ Why couldn’t they ever have a normal conversation? _Well, you idiot,_ he told himself, _that’s what happens when you spend years only talking to him to rile him up._ And now, when they did try to be civil, it just ended up awkward and clumsy like in the hallway the other day. Maybe it was too late for them to become friends. Maybe he’d made the biggest mistake of his life pushing Enjolras away. And now he had to live with that mistake. Literally live with it, for god knows how long. 

He curled up in a ball, consumed with guilt. And then, feeling guilty about his behaviour through it all. Cursing himself and his dysfunctional brain, he eventually fell into a restless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta (@ hozierhoe and courfeyrank on tumblr) for putting up with my three am ramblings, you rock! 
> 
> I've got a lot more chapters typed up and planned, so if you're following this story, let me know! Especially if you have thoughts on how often I should update :) The coming chapters will have a bit more plot, as well, so stay tuned! 
> 
> As always, I thrive on any type of attention so if you love it, hate it, or anything in between, leave a comment! 
> 
> Yes, the cat is named after Sergei Polunin, good catch. No, I don’t share his political views. (Nor does R, who picked that name.) However, he is perhaps one of the most amazing dancers I’ve ever seen, especially his ‘Take me to church’ choreography - check it out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozs_f4ZT9sw  
>    
> If you’re into dance, or if you’re a person, I can also highly recommend this video. It’s not related to anything, I just think it’s really fucking neat. Until next time!  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2YSlk9l1qKg


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's having a rough day, and unfortunately Enjolras is there to witness it. Because, you know. They live together, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a while, huh?  
> Since last time I've moved temporarily twice, graduated, gotten accepted to my first choice of school and moved back in with my parents. But! I have several chapters done and updates will be more frequent from now on!  
> As always, I'm very thankful for any and all comments, wether you like the story or not. Thriving on attention over here :)  
> Enjoy! Or not. Either way, here it is.  
> TW: Graphic description of anxiety/panic attack

On day eight, he woke up feeling tired and sore. He sighed. _What now?_ Although, considering he’d spent most of the day before sleeping, maybe it wasn’t all that odd. It was still early; he supposed sleeping this much had thrown off his internal clock. Feeling restless, he grabbed his sketchpad and his cigarettes and padded barefoot towards the balcony. 

The morning air was fresh, though not cold, and one of the blankets they stored next to the balcony door would keep him warm just fine. He grabbed one and made himself a little nest of pillows and the blanket on the sofa until he felt like a child in a blanket fort. There was something oddly comforting about it, despite the fact that the sofa actually consisted of pallets and a shit ton of pillows Jehan found at the second hand store they sometimes picked up shifts at. Sitting cross-legged, Grantaire put a large pillow in his lap and propped up his sketchpad. It would become uncomfortable in about ten minutes, he knew, but for now, he was perfectly happy as he was. 

Instead of sketching Eponine, as he usually would, he started capturing the skyline before him. As apartment buildings took shape, he started adding the details around him. A cat, sunbathing on a table. An old lady watering her plants. The little bakery on the street below was gifted new shiny letters on the windows, and the awning was suddenly clean and brightly coloured. Well, in his mind it was. He hadn’t thought to bring any coloured pencils out with him. 

It was all perfectly harmonic and nice, except for the fact that the streets were all empty. A few cars drove by in their lonesome in what would usually be the morning rush. There was no line for fresh croissants at the baker’s, and it was awfully quiet. Grantaire put his sketchpad down on the quilted pillow in his lap. A jumble of emotions were stirring in his chest, and he had no idea what was what. Loneliness, maybe? In a house full of his friends, it was ridiculous, but he felt it nonetheless. 

He leaned back against the cool wall and watched the rising sun hit the cracks in the concrete. He had never been this acutely aware of the walls that surrounded him, but now it was as if they had shrunk. He needed to be _out there_ , where there was life, and people and _freedom_. Where he could breathe. 

Jehan had done a marvelous job of making the balcony feel tropical and outdoorsy, but it just wasn’t enough with trellises and hanging flower pots. It didn’t make him feel like there was enough air for him too. No, he was stuck in this apartment with a man he adored who hated him back, and he was just insignificant enough that the world would forget to produce oxygen for him in the meantime. His chest felt constricted and his jaw hurt. _From clenching it_ , his mind supplied, but it didn’t help. Involuntary tears streaked his face. He tried to feel his head against the brick wall, tried to relax and breathe like a _normal fucking person_. 

_Be aware of your surroundings_ , his therapist would tell him. _Is the danger real, or just in your head?_

“ _You’re_ just in my head” he snapped back, pushing his fists against his traitorous eyes. He heard footsteps nearing, and then, before he could react, Enjolras spoke up. 

“Oh! Uh… is this a bad time?” 

Grantaire froze. “No, I’m, it’s fine,” he said, quickly wiping his eyes and looking everywhere but Enjolras’ direction. He heard Enjolras take a few hesitating steps towards him. _Damnit._

“Are you sure?” Enjolras cleared his throat. “Can I do anything for you?” _Damn him and his moral compass._

Grantarie, still trying to get his breathing under control, couldn’t manage to choke out an answer. Damnit, he could hardly breathe without producing gasping, asthmatic sounds. God, he was pathetic.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras sounded so damn unsure and Grantaire wished with every fibre of his being that he would just turn around and walk away. He attempted to say this to the blond, but he only managed to sound like he was choking, and there was a loud ringing sound whining in his ears and his hands were cold and unfeeling even as he gripped the pallets so hard his knuckles went white, and so he didn’t manage to get any of this out. He was still facing the wall, facing away from Enjolras, but he heard him sit down next to him through the noise in his ears. Had he been present, _normal_ , he would have felt the pillows shift and the walls of his fort falling down, but he didn’t. He was only vaguely aware that Enjolras was sitting next to him, asking Grantaire to look at him. He couldn’t, even if he had wanted to. By then, every single muscle in his body was tense to the point of shaking, and he couldn’t really see anything. The only coherent thought his dysfunctional brain seemed to be able to form was _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, Not Enjolras, anyone but Enjolras, please, fuck._

When Grantaire panicked, it felt like an out-of-body experience but with none of the perks. He couldn’t feel or see anything, not even as if he was seeing himself from an outside perspective. He was just _gone_. He was only vaguely aware that he was outside and most of the time, he didn’t realise that he wasn’t alone. It felt like he had shrunk and disappeared, outside and in, until the only thing left of him was a black hole in a too big shell, sucking out the warmth from his skin and leaving only anxiety behind. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, just that he at some point had become aware of the fact that he was shaking, and his thoughts had gone from a jumbled whirlwind of emotions to a pressing feeling of anxiety that he was doing everything wrong, in general. He suddenly became aware of Enjolras’ hand resting soothingly on his shoulder, and he flinched involuntarily. Enjolras must have noticed, but he didn’t move his hand. The sound of him talking in a low, soothing tone slowly registered in Grantaire’s brain, voice slipping into focus as the sounds around him returned. From what he could make out, Enjolras was retelling the contents of an especially boring chapter from his course literature, and Grantaire let the sound of his voice wash over him as he tried to regain control of his breathing. 

One by one, he pried his fingers from the pallets rough underside, the wood having left marks across his hands. As he shifted, Enjolras let his words fade out. Grantaire shakily pulled up his knees to his chest and covered his face in his hands. The silence stretched out between them, Grantaire too emotionally drained to find the energy to care. Eventually, it almost became comfortable, and he dared to move his hands slightly from his face, one curling in the front of his messy hair, the steady grip strangely gounding. Finally, it was Enjolras who broke the silence. 

“You don’t have to be ashamed. I-” He cleared his throat, voice raspy from being quiet for a long stretch of time “I get them too. Or, at least I used to. Now it’s more… Infrequent.” His voice was low, almost a whisper. 

Grantaire bit back a biting remark, not having the energy to tell the blond that _you have no fucking idea how I felt_ , but thankfully stopped himself in time to hear the rest of Enjolras’ sentence. The weight of his confession hit Grantaire like a sledgehammer to the chest. His heart broke for the man beside him. Enjolras, who always seemed so strong, so in control, so… cold. Like marble, like the statue of Apollo Grantaire always compared him to. The fact that he also felt like this sometimes, small and useless and like he was drowning... He couldn’t quite believe it, couldn’t quite stomach the thought of Enjolras hurting like this. But there was a weight in his voice, a sadness to the way he said it that Grantarie knew, deep in his bones, that Enjolras knew exactly how he felt. Grantaire was silent for a long time before he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry.” His voice broke, rough from his laboured breathing and the crying. Enjolras seemed to understand the full meaning of the words; he was sorry for being like this, putting Enjolras through this, and he was sorry that Enjolras had to experience it himself. While he knew the blond would never let him apologize straight up for panicking, he didn’t berate him for the double meaning then. 

Enjolras’ hand still rested on his shoulder, warm and gentle and caring, even long after the need for comfort had passed. But Grantaire, hopelessly pining for any sort of attention from the man even now, didn’t mention it, and he didn’t dare to move in case that would make Enjolras suddenly remember where his hand was placed and remove it. And so they sat there in perhaps the most comfortable silence the two of them had ever shared. 

The sun rose slowly over the rooftops while they sat there together until it started to warm Grantaire’s face. Grateful for the calm of it all, he closed his eyes to the light and just let himself be as content as he possibly could given the circumstances, leaning his head against the sun-warmed brick wall. The episode had left him exhausted, both emotionally and physically, and it didn’t take long until he started to drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, thanks for reading!  
> If you’re struggling with panic attacks, anxiety or depression, do not feel guilty. R does, because he’s sick. If you see yourself in his reaction, please reach out to someone, even me if you have no one else. There is no shame in it. I’ve had all these issues myself in the past and I’m here to tell you that you can and will feel happy again. I no longer suffer from any of these things. There Is Hope. Stick around to see it.  
> Next update won't take this long, promise!  
> Btw, here's my [tumblr](http://occasionally--lost.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Bonus!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter from Enjolras' POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept my promise! Here's a little fluff intermission. Enjoy :)

Grantaire leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed to the sun, and Enjolras smiled. The sun reflected softly in Grantaire’s hair; his brown curls caught its warm glow almost like they longed to keep it there. His long eyelashes cast soft shadows down his cheek, and _christ he really looked different when he wasn’t frowning_. 

He looked younger, less troubled. His nose still had the telltale crook to it after being broken at least a few times, and acne scars scattered across his cheeks almost like paint splatter, making his skin uneven. But when he looked like this -vulnerable, open, _not_ like he was about to chew up Enjolras’ ideals and spit them back in his face- he could understand why Grantaire so often had was accompanied by pretty young men and women when he left the Musain late at night. 

Enjolras, deep in thought, startled when a soft sound escaped Grantaire, afraid that the other man somehow knew how his thoughts had wandered, blush rising high on his cheeks. He was just about to defend himself when Grantaire made the sound once more, causing Enjolras to do a double take. His eyes were still closed, face open and honest like he never looked at Enjolras -and something twinged in his heart at the thought, but he pushed it away- lips slightly parted. Realisation struck him, sudden and strange. He was snoring. He was out cold, within minutes of closing his eyes. Embarrassment and relief mixed in Enjolras’ chest. 

His hand hovered just above Grantaire’s shoulder after having flinched, his gaze involuntary drawn to those soft curls once more. Grantaire’s hair was messy, strands sticking in every direction. Without thinking, he smoothed a particularly wayward lock down to join the others. His hair was more textured than it looked, but soft in a more unexpected way. It wasn’t silky like in commercials, and it wasn’t smooth like his own, but it was light, somehow. 

Once he had started, it was hard to stop. Which is why, when Combeferre found him half an hour later, that’s how he found him. A hand in Grantaire’s hair, mezmerised gaze and blush prominent on his cheeks. Combeferre just raised a single eyebrow at his furiously red face. Enjolras snatched his hand back, as if burned. He got up, clumsily, ready to let him know it was _not what it looked like_. Just as he was about to chase after Combeferre’s retreating form, explanations at the tip of his tongue, a single look to the sleeping man on the sofa stopped him in his tracks. Grantaire looked so small, sleeping curled up like that. Shivering, he remembered how he used to feel after a panic attack, and lifted the blanket to cover his shoulders. Frowning, he noticed a packet of cigarettes on the table, and he shoved them in his pocket when he hurried by to catch up with Combeferre. He didn’t notice Grantaire stir behind him. 

“It’s not- Grantaire wasn’t feeling well-” he broke off, not sure how much the other man wanted him to say. “We were just talking” he settled on, finally. Combeferre, having stopped in the kitchen, just turned around and met his eyes, expression unwavering. 

“We were just talking! And then he fell asleep and he hadn’t been feeling well and I just thought-” For once, he was at a loss for words. Combeferre’s brow furrowed, worry clear in his eyes. 

“Not feeling well how?” 

Enjolras faltered, fear of betraying Grantaire’s trust making him hesitate to tell Combeferre the truth, despite being one of his oldest and most trusted friends. 

“Did he have a cough? Fever? Sore throat?” Combeferre pushed on. “If so, the rest of us have to know, Enjolras.” Combeferre sounded stern, almost angry with him.

Enjolras’ brain slowly caught up, realising what his friend had assumed. 

“Oh, no, not like that at all! No, it’s fine, we’re all fine.” He frowned. “Did you really think I’d keep it from you otherwise?” 

Combeferre released the breath he apparently had been holding, visibly relaxing. 

“I guess not,” he muttered uncharacteristically, “It’s just...It’s a lot.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, tired. It took Enjolras aback. He’d always viewed Combeferre as a steady, calming presence, always the one who knew what had to be done and willing to do it. It partly came with him being a med student, he mused. To be the kind of person to sacrifice so much to help others. It just felt obvious that no matter what, Combeferre could handle it. But as he ran a hand through his short hair, Enjolras noticed the bruises under his eyes, his rumpled shirt and with a jolt, he realised. _He’s just human. Not even 25 yet. Just learning how to adult like the rest of us_. He felt guilty, for all the times he’d acted like a petulant child, expecting Combeferre to deal with the real world when it had all gotten to be too much for him. He always took care of them, was always the reasonable, sober one, and never once did he complain. A lump formed in his throat, and he longed to reach out for his friend, wrap him in a hug and tell him he’d never take him for granted again. Something must’ve shifted in his expression, because Combeferre rolled his shoulders back, put his glasses back on and gave him a half-hearted smile.

“It’s fine,” he said, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Enjolras couldn’t get the words out, didn’t know how to express this sudden realisation, all these things Combeferre had known through all the years and never mentioned without sounding like a total ass. He could never make up for all that time. Instead, he nodded once, hoping that his friend understood the feeling he was trying to convey, that he finally _understood_ , and turned away. 

“Coffee?” he asked. He could hear the smile in Combeferre’s voice when he answered.

“Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre finally getting the recognition he deserves <33 
> 
> I just hit 10k words on this fic and I'm not really anywhere near the end.. Oops. Stay tuned!  
> As always I thrive on attention so feel free to leave a comment of what you think, good or bad :) As always huge thanks to my beta courfeyrank (tumblr) for putting up with me and correcting all my stupid mistakes!


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire wakes up on the balcony and is, despite his best efforts, forced to deal with reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I have come down with the Affliction. Writers block. The other day I turned around and realised I hate just about everything I've done with this fic, but I am determined to finish it! Just hang tight and we'll get there eventually.  
> As always huge thanks to my beta @courfeyrank and @hozierhoe on tumblr for your patience. Any remaining mistakes are my own.  
> CW mentions of panic attack, but no graphic descriptions.

When Grantaire woke up, he was alone. Disoriented, he wondered when he’d curled up like this, and why his room was so cold. And then it all came crashing back to him. _Oh god_. Enjolras. The balcony. _Enjolras had been there_. He whipped his head around, only to find the sofa behind him empty, a dent left in the pillows where he had sat. Half of him was relieved, and half of him was grossly disappointed. He burrowed his head in his hands. _This is fine_ , he told himself. _It’s not like our relationship can get any worse_. 

His body ached, from the panic attack or the odd sleeping position, he did not not know. As he stretched, a blanket fell from his shoulders. He knew for sure he didn’t wrap it around himself, which must have meant that Enjolras did. _God_. Enjolras had come out onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air or something, found a crying, panicking Grantaire, not able to say a word (Grantaire reminded himself to _breathe_ , it’s _fine_ ) and sat with him while he wheezed, hand on his shoulder (he absentmindedly placed his hand where Enjolras’ had been before, trying to recreate the soothing sensation) confessed his inner demons ( _this was all too much to process_ ) and then Grantaire had… fallen asleep. Which was not the most desirable reaction to such a confession, maybe, and Enjolras had left in embarrassment, he concluded. He’d tucked Grantaire in, like a child -that’s how he’d acted, so he supposed that was fair- and left.

A dull ache spread from between his eyes and wrapped itself around his skull. Distantly, he wished for a drink. However, what shard of self-preservation he had not yet managed to squash told him that it would only make things worse, really. He knew this, but he never used to let that stop him. He weighed pros and cons for a minute before deciding it was probably a good thing he didn’t have the energy to go find one anyways. The kitchen would probably be full of people right now, and the last thing he wanted was to be forced to face any of them, least of all Enjolras. He longed for his bed, a tiredness deep in his bones begging him to curl down under the blankets and stay there in the dark and wait for a better day to come around. This one was doomed, he decided. 

He gathered his his sketchpad and pencil but left the blanket, simply not being able to face what felt like the herculean task of folding it and putting it back on the pile by the door. Someone else would surely come out here later and be pleased to find it. He frowned as he made his way to his room, _didn’t he bring some cigarettes out_ -

Deep in thought, he almost collided with someone in the doorway, just narrowly avoiding getting hot coffee spilt all over him. Grantaire sucked in a breath and looked up just to find himself staring into those intense eyes he knew so well. They were even bluer from this close, if that was even possible. They were wide in surprise, as captivating as ever. He didn’t manage to look away until Enjolras finally cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped out of his personal space. He was holding two mugs: _I’m cute, I’m hot, I’m everything you’re not_ , which belonged to Courfeyrac and _Addicted to pot_ , with a picture of a coffee pot. Enjolras seemed painfully unaware of the irony, and Grantaire struggled to hold back both tears and laughter. Enjolras looked as if he was at a loss for words, an unfamiliar expression on the leader’s otherwise determined face. It didn’t make him less beautiful though, and Grantaire struggled just a little bit to remember how to breathe. 

“I brought you coffee,” Enjolras said, holding _Addicted to pot_ out to him. Grantaire stared at him unintelligibly. “I thought it might make you feel a little better.” A blush crept up his cheeks at he spoke, and while it was adorable, Grantaire felt like he ought to look around for a hidden camera. He had absolutely no clue what was going on, and he had the sneaking suspicion that someone was playing a prank on him. 

“That’s, you don’t have to,” he started “I- I have to go. Sorry.” He pushed past Enjolras, who looked as if he was about to reach out and grab him, stopped last second by the two full mugs in his hand. For once, things worked out in Grantaire's favour. 

“Grantaire, please.” Enjolras sounded more vulnerable than he’d ever heard him, and Grantaire was torn between the urge to do anything Enjolras asked of him, immediately, and the urge to go and hide in his room and not come out for days. He knew he had some snacks stashed away somewhere, and maybe even half a bottle of wine. Realistically, he probably could go a few days without actually leaving. The thought was tempting, but Enjolras still looked at him with those pleading eyes, so Grantaire did the next best thing, compromised to his best of his ability. He took the coffee cup from Enjolras with shaky hands, torn between not wanting to look him in the eyes and not being able to look away. 

“Thanks” he croaked out.  
Enjolras, caught off guard, drew a breath, preparing to argue - _that’s not what I meant_ \- but by then Grantaire had already turned a corner, and moments later, he heard the door shut behind him. 

Enjolras was left there, stunned to silence, looking to where the other man had just stood. _But I wanted to talk to you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> I am founder and leader of the italics fanclub and you can't do anything about it, sorry. Many a teacher has tried, but you can take the italics out of the essay, but you can't take the idiot out of the italics. Or something. Idk man, it's the middle of the night. Also that's not a saying in Sweden so I wouldn't really know either way.  
> Also I know, I know, they’re painfully dumb idiots, but don’t worry, the plot bout to Thicken. I mean, they’ll still be idiots, but they will be idiots at a faster pace.  
> Next chapter is a bit of a monster but a lot of things are explained and things get Set In Motion so stay tuned for that!  
> As always I thrive on attention so please drop a comment if you have opinions or if you just want to keyboard smash that's fine too.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Courfeyrac have a Talk, so naturally it ends in a pillow fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back y'all!  
> This one is kinda sappy and silly but also pretty self-explanatory, so without further ado...  
> As always huge thanks to my beta @ courfeyrank and hozierhoe on tumblr. Any and all remaining mistakes are my own.

Despite everything, Grantaire couldn’t sleep. Not well, anyways. He drifted in and out of consciousness, sleep almost more restless than being awake. It was disorienting, and his dreams all brought him back to the panic he had felt earlier. When he finally woke up for real, he was sweaty and had tangled himself hopelessly stuck in his sheets. He lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving. 

“God,” he muttered. “Jesus fucing Christ.” _What a fucking day._

He sat, disentangling himself from his sheets. The coffee Enjolras had made for him caught his eyes. He dropped his head into his hands, already feeling like it was getting to be too much again. The ridiculous mug drew a short huff of laugh from his lips, although it ended up coming out as sob. _Everything seems to come out as a sob today._ His head was still aching and his eyes hurt, like the muscles around them were wound tight. He tried to rub the pain from them, but knew his efforts were futile. 

A creak came from the door to his room and he turned, anxiety already knotting in his stomach. He couldn’t handle facing Enjolras now, not again. But it wasn’t Enjolras, it wasn’t even Jehan, who would’ve been his second guess. Courfeyrac tiptoed into his room, looking hesitant. Grantaire flopped backwards onto his mattress. 

“Hey Courf.” He didn’t sound quite as breezy as he had wished, but at least this time his voice didn’t break, thankfully. 

“Hey, R.” 

Courfeyrac knew about his panic attacks, given that they lived together, but he usually didn’t get involved. Their little household actually had a pretty functional routine worked out for when someone was having a bad day that worked for all of them, although Grantaire had use of it far more often than the rest. Jehan would be the person on the front line. They were a soothing presence and had an uncanny ability to know precisely what the other person needed to hear - or when to be quiet. They had a way with words, there was almost something eerie about it sometimes. But even if the words themselves were a bit nonsensical, they said them in such a manner that you’d feel calmer either way. When the first, rougher part was over, they’d just sit with him, often drinking tea in silence. It was about then Courfeyrac would step in, loudly stating that he was _over all of this moping_ and make them all watch Rupaul's Drag Race while explaining the origins and twitter fights of the dramas that seemed to be constant in the pink workroom. Or he would throw a dance party, or make them all play a quickly escalating round of some board game; whatever it took to draw out a smile. But even though Courfeyrac could be brusque sometimes, he always made sure it was okay and not too much, careful not to make things worse. It was, perhaps, the biggest perk of living with him, Grantaire thought. He always, _always_ managed to make them both smile, no matter how hard of a time they were having

That’s why Grantaire was so taken aback by Courfeyrac’s entry, almost blurted out _it’s not your turn yet_ , but stopped himself last minute. He thanked his lucky star he wasn’t always a complete idiot with no brain-to-mouth filter. _Only around Enjolras_ , his brain helpfully supplied.  
Courfeyrac sat down next to him on the bed. Grantaire kept stubbornly staring at the roof.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” 

Grantaire just let out an uncommitted hum. 

“Me too,” Courfeyrac confessed. Grantaire turned to look at him, half-rising onto his elbow. 

“It’s just,” he continued “being trapped here. With all your thoughts. I want to go out dancing, get absolutely _hammered_ and flirt with someone who I know won’t remember me the next day. Uncomplicated. Easy. Unlike-” Courfeyrac broke off, blushing, obviously having said more than he meant to. Grantaire cooly raised an eyebrow and waited for an explanation.

“What I’m trying to say,” Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “is that I get it. If you feel trapped, not being able to be _out there_. And with Enjolras too… It’s a lot.” Courfeyrac sounded almost uncharacteristically gentle, sympathy clear in his eyes. 

Courfeyrac was probably one of the most outgoing people Grantaire had ever met, he mused. He’d never seen a day gone by without Courfeyrac talking to someone new, be it the bus driver, the barista or a cute guy at the club - he thrived on social interaction. And though he loved his friends more than anything, it was as if he was dependent on other people to energise him, just by talking to them. 

Grantaire enjoyed meeting new people; he felt very strongly that it was one of the charms of living in a big city. But while he considered each and every meeting a treasured adventure, it drained him of energy instead of supplying it. For Courfeyrac to be trapped in their relatively small apartment… Grantaire wondered how he kept it together. 

When they had realised that all seven of them present at the party would have to quarantine together, Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras had sat down and assigned sleeping arrangements for them all. Grantaire had been in the middle of his initial “holy shit we’re in quarantine”-breakdown and had been spared the logistics of it, but he knew roughly how the discussion had gone. That meltdown was also the reason that he was the only one with a room to himself, the guilt of that fact not managing to entirely drown out his gratefulness, and so he didn’t argue it. Courfeyrac had immediately volunteered to give Combeferre his bed by offering to sleep in Jehan’s. Which, given his friends-with-benefits arrangement with them wouldn’t be as awkward as sharing with Combeferre, he’d argued later. “I just don’t want to take advantage of him, you know,” he’d said to Grantaire. “Especially since he doesn’t know… Well, you know.” Grantaire thought Courfeyrac had it just as bad for Combeferre as he did for Enjolras, but he couldn’t get his friend to admit it out loud for the life of him. Enjolras would stay with Combeferre, that was a given, which left them with Bahorel and Feuilly. While everyone knew they would rather stay in the same room, there just wasn’t enough space, and so Feuilly had come to stay with Combeferre and Enjolras, since he was an early riser, and Bahorel stayed with Jehan and Courfeyrac. Enjolras had thought it was a very practical solution for all involved and only protested half-hearted when Courfeyrac had shouted “Heck, yeah party room! Have fun in the loser room, nerds,” with a loud whoop. Grantaire smiled to himself at the thought of his friend’s antics.

Grantaire realised Courfeyrac was staring at him. He supposed the silence meant he waited for an answer. 

“What?” He grimaged by way of apology. “I zoned out.” At least he had the common decency to look embarrassed. 

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac clarified. 

“Oh. Well.” Grantaire sank back down into his pillows, shame washing over him. “That’s ruined forever. I… I panicked. And he got dragged into it, somehow - although to be fair, he dragged himself into it, the good-hearted bastard. I don’t know how I’ll ever look him in the eye again, and now he _lives_ here and-” 

“R. Grantaire,” Courfeyrac interrupted, “I talked to him.” He paused, letting the words sink in. Grantaire groaned, rolled over and pushed his face into his pillow, from where a faint ‘nooo’ could be heard. Laughing, Courfeyrac continued.

“It’s fine, It’s fine! And before you freak out about him going around talking to everyone about it, he wouldn’t do that. He only told me because I saw that something was up and wouldn’t let him get away with lying about it. And he figured since we live together, well. And even then he didn’t say much.” Grantaire turned his head sideways, looking suspiciously at Courfeyrac. 

“Yeah?” He sounded more pathetic than he’d wished, but then he was pretty sure he couldn’t sink much lower in anyone’s eyes anyways. Especially Courfeyrac’s, who’d definitely seen him at his worst.

“Yeah.” Courfeyrac smiled reassuringly. “He said you had a panic attack, and that he tried to be there for you the best he could and that he thought he handled it fine, but that you were uncomfortable when he tried to bring you coffee and he’s _terrified_ that he fucked up and made things worse.” Courfeyrac, for all his virtues, couldn’t help but to grin at this, mischievous. “He was worse than you are when you’re drunk.” Grantaire hit him over the head with a pillow, which only made him smile more. Grantaire’s face, however, turned serious again. 

“That was his only concern? That he made things worse?” Courfeyrac drew in a breath to answer, but Grantaire beat him to it. “I made a mess of myself, Courf. If he ever looks at me again without disgust, I’ll be amazed. How is _he_ scared of messing up? He was as perfect as always! He was… he was actually really good at it.” A blush rose on his cheeks. “He really knew what to do,” he said, quietly. 

“He told you, he’s had them himself. It was in high school, mostly. I knew him then, obviously. It was pretty bad.” He smiled, but his eyes were sad. “So he gets it. You have no reason to be embarrassed.” 

Grantaire, moved, grappled after something to say to relieve the tension, because honestly, Courfeyrac rarely let down his guard like this, and hearing about high school-Enjolras did things to Grantaire’s heart he’d rather ignore. 

Finally, he managed a weak “Damn, you telling me he’s only human? If only I’d known sooner.” But despite the weak joke and worse execution, Courfeyrac burst into his usual loud, infectious laughter.

“Talk to him about it, okay?” Courfeyrac was faking stern and Grantaire was fighting to keep the corners of his mouth in check. He stuck out his bottom lip and looked up at him through his lashes.

“Won’t you please do it for me,” he asked, dragging out the please. 

“Ha! I’ve got my own issues, you’ll have to try and adult on your own.” 

“What good are you anyway,” Grantaire muttered. “But speaking of, how’s it going with Jehan and… that,” he said, as insinuating as he could possibly muster. Courfeyrac attempted to flop down on the bed next to him, but since that was where Grantaire was, he mostly just flopped onto him, an elbow to his sternum knocking the air out of him. They burst into another fit of laughter. 

Eventually, after they were finally done laughing, they both managed to wiggle their way to their own side of the bed. 

“It’s… I don’t really know what it is.” Courfeyrac’s eyebrows were knitted together. “Ever since this whole thing-” he gestured at nothing and everything at once, “started, they’ve been acting really weird. And as if that isn’t enough, so has Combeferre. Like, we sat down to do the rooms, right,” guilt washed over Grantaire once more, “and everything was fine, but when I told him he could get my bed because I’m used to sleeping in Jehan’s anyway, he got like mad stiff and shit and he hasn’t looked me in the eyes since, and on top of that Jehan’s been avoiding me too, like, what if they didn’t want me there and now they’re uncomfortable?” Courfeyrac looked so sad Grantaire almost didn’t laugh at him. Almost. Courfeyrac ignored him and carried on. “I know Ferre’s used to being the adult one and putting us first and stuff, because he’s literally the kindest man I know, _and I know Feuilly_ , but is he really that unused to people doing nice things for him? Are we that awful friends to him? And when I do try to do something nice, _out of the kindness of my heart_ , he acts weird about it? So what am I to do then, never be nice to him?!”

“I don’t think he got uncomfortable that you were kind to him, dude,” Grantaire chuckled. “And believe me, if Jehan thinks something, they’ll say it. You know that better than anyone.” 

“I know, I know, but I just can’t make any sense of it!” Courfeyrac threw his hands in the air, almost hitting Grantaire in the face in the process. “Can’t you just tell me what to do?” 

“Ha! I’ve got my own issues, you’ll have to try and adult on your own.” 

It took a minute for Courfeyrac to realise he was being quoted, but when he did, he clutched his chest dramatically, mouth agape. What proceeded was a pillow fight that woke up everyone still sleeping in the apartment, and although some complaints were made initially, they soon fell out the window along with a pillow after a particularly unfortunate throw on Bahorel’s part when the fight moved into the living room. 

Grantaire felt more alive than he had in days. He was armed with two pillows from his bed, using the thicker one as a shield. This proved to be a very effective tactic, at least until he forgot to watch is back for a moment. Bahorel grabbed the opportunity to lift him up in a bear hug, throw him down on the couch, wrestle the protective pillow from his grip, sit on top of him and hit him ruthlessly until he barely could breathe from laughing too much. 

When Enjolras walked in, still looking scared and confused and wondering, it took him a moment to react to the scene in front of him. After a beat, his eyes widened as he took in Bahorel laughing like a maniac, having taken on Courfeyrac as his next victim. Courfeyrac, however, had jumped up onto the couch (which was pushed back to a corner to a) form a barricade and b) get out of the way) to gain some highground. He was fighting a losing battle, but he’d be damned if he went down without a fight. In the opposite corner, Combeferre and Jehan had teamed up against Feuilly, but even then, the redhead had the upper hand. Not because he was an exceptionally skilled pillow fighter, but because Jehan and Combeferre were possibly the worst ones Grantaire had ever seen. Jehan, although not physically weak or unable to fight somehow could not get a grip on how to swing the pillow fast enough to do any real difference or, for that matter, actually hit Feuilly. And Combeferre… Well, Combeferre stood there, in dark jeans, a dress shirt and a knitted orange pullover that nicely complimented his dark skin, glasses askew, and looked like he’d never been in a pillow fight before. Although come to think of it, maybe he hadn’t. 

Enjolras spotted Grantaire last, hiding behind an end table which held one of Jehan’s many plants, and he was spared only by the fact that no one dared risking breaking its pot and upsetting them. Their eyes met, and with a pang, Grantaire realised that Enjolras still looked scared and unsure of whether he should talk to Grantaire at all. 

“Pillow fight,” Grantaire said, shrugging, trying to communicate that everything was fine without having to _actually communicate_. When Enjolras didn’t move, Grantaire risked a few steps into the room and slid an abandoned pillow towards the blond. It came to a stop at his feet, and he slowly bent to pick it up. He looked so goddamn adorable just standing there, Grantaire thought, with a pillow in his hand, looking as perplexed as if faced with a particularly difficult maths concept, and _honestly_ , Grantaire was just a man. So he did the only reasonable thing, and took a swing at him with the pillow still clutched in his right hand. Now, it was a pretty obvious attempt and really, Enjolras had all the time in the world to duck, or block it, or hit Grantaire back, or _anything_. But he didn’t. So Grantaire hit him over the head with his pillow, immediately tousling his hair beyond saving. Enjolras’ stare widened at the impact, as though it had surprised him too, and held Grantaire’s gaze. Grantaire, terrified he had crossed a line, had an apology on the tip of his tongue when he saw the corners of Enjolras mouth twitch. And then their serious, business-like leader cracked into a grin bright enough to make even a cynic believe. It was blinding, but Grantaire barely had a moment to commit it to memory before Enjolras burst into laughter, Grantaire just a second behind. It was intoxicating, and when Enjolras’ first strike came at him, he was too busy laughing to move out of the way, and it got him straight in the chest. It didn’t take long until they were both fully immersed in the fight, the flurry of battle making them forget everything else that had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> As always I literally thrive on comments so good or bad, please tell me what you think!  
> My boys are so silly. *sigh* Courf and Ferre... Get your shit together please. Use Your Words.  
> Anyways, they've been through a lot today, but uhh there's a Lot More before the day is over, so stay tuned for that.  
> I just hit 15k on this fic! So more is to come! And where /I'm/ at in the fic it's getting pretty exciting...  
> See you soon!


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the pillow fight, and a practical joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> This chapter is pretty short and Super silly, so I hope you enjoy.  
> I'm moving away to college in four days and I'm trying to get as much of this fic done before then, so like, no beta we die like men.  
> Oh! There's a playlist now! More in the end notes.

There were feathers _everywhere_. That in itself wasn’t really a problem - it’d be easy enough to clean up. The problem was that _everywhere_ included Enjolras’ hair. And it shouldn’t have been as adorable as it was, and it wasn’t supposed to make Grantaire’s stomach twist painfully and _he should really stop staring_ \- 

The thing was that even though it should have looked like a birds’ nest; messy and feathery and unflattering like Grantaire’s own, it didn’t. It softened up his otherwise sharp, marble-like features, transforming him from god to man. And that only made his beauty more prominent, the realisation that he was nothing more than a person like Grantare himself, and yet so painfully perfect. 

Clear blue eyes looked into Grantaire’s from closer than expected and his face flushed bright red at being caught staring. He turned his head into the corner between the couch and the wall, pretending to find something incredibly interesting on his shoulder. But it was too late, and Enjolras sat down on the floor in front of him. Grantarie stubbornly kept picking at the sleeve of his t-shirt. Enjolras cleared his throat and he reluctantly turned to face him. 

“That was fun,” he said, smiling tentatively.

“Yeah, it was.” Grantaire smiled back. 

“Who knew there was such an extensive skill set to master just to be good at pillow fighting? You’d think it’d be easy,” said Enjolras, clearly satisfied that Grantaire wasn’t mad at him. 

Grantaire clutched at his chest, faking indignation. “Excuse me? It’s a carefully honed craft!” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Watch out, if Courfeyrac heard you speak this blasphemy he’d have your head along with the bourgeoisie come the revolution,” he said, raising a cheeky eyebrow. This, at least, was familiar ground.

Enjolras just huffed, mind clearly somewhere else, “I’ll keep that in mind.” A somewhat surprised laugh escaped Grantaire, startling Enjolras, and he pulled away, out of Grantaire’s space. He hadn’t realised they were so close to each other, but he already missed it. 

Neither of them said anything more, but Enjolras seemed distracted by something, and he still had that unreadable expression. It bothered Grantaire more than he’d like to admit. He knew all of Enjolras expressions by heart, or so he had thought. He had seven different types of ‘angry’, 23 if you included ‘annoyed at Grantaire’. This was none of them, nor was it sad, happy, content… 

Not quite, at least. Though the expression did remind him a little of that time he caught Enjolras leaning back against the back wall of the Musain, just smiling and watching while the group clamoured around like children after a particularly successful end-of-the-term-meeting, the setting sun basking them all in an orange glow of happiness and camaraderie, but there was something else too. It was a little sad, and a little like he’d smile at Grantaire after winning an argument. Not that Grantarie would ever admit to losing, he’d just mutter something into his drink and look away. Enjolras would smile triumphantly and Grantaire would keep silently pining. That smile was the reason he started many of those arguments in the first place.

Grantaire didn’t understand it. Sure, this was probably the most any of them had laughed since this whole thing started, but to say that Enjolras had won would be straight up delusional. The leader was skilled in many ways, but pillow fights weren’t exactly his forte. 

Enjolras bit his bottom lip and raised his hand, still looking somewhere above him. Grantaire’s eyes immediately glued themselves to Enjolras’ mouth, the teeth worrying at the soft pink of his bottom lip. Grantaire wondered how it’d feel to bite that lip, how it would feel if Enjolras bit _his_ lip. He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He was so distracted by this that he didn’t even notice the hand that slipped into his hair. That is, until the hand inevitably hit a tangle and suddenly pulled at his hair. A quiet, breathy sound escaped his lips before he could process any of it. It was soft enough to go unnoticed by anyone else, but clear enough that there was no mistaking it. 

Grantaire could die from embarrassment. He could just die. He silently prayed to a god that he didn’t believe in to _please just let me disappear_ \- But no higher power heard him, and he was stuck staring into Enjolras wide eyes, both of their faces going bright red. 

“Oh my god,” whispered Grantaire, still shell-shocked.

“I was just-” Enjolras yanked his hand back from his hair, pulling even more at it in the process. Grantaire bit his lip to prevent any other sort of unwanted noise escaping him. “Feather,” Enjolras said, holding it up.”I’m sorry, I didn’t want to-”

“Grantaire, you will leave these eggs alone, so help me God!” A screech that, given its pitch and content could only belong to Courfeyrac sounded from the kitchen. 

“I better-” Grantaire stood jerkily, pointing his thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” he added, and fled the scene. 

As soon as he was sure he was out of sight from Enjolras he slid down to the floor with his back to the wall separating the kitchen from the living room. 

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” he whispered to himself, gently punching the floor next to him as to not draw any attention. His head thumped back against the wall, his eyes scrunched shut. That was it. He was done for. There was no way out of this. He might have to change his name and move far, far away in the middle of the night. How could he ever look Enjolras in the eyes again? He knew now. Even though the -Grantaire forced himself to think it- _whine_ was _highly_ unintentional, the reason for it was clear as day. Which meant that Enjolras knew. Enjolras knew, and he couldn’t leave. Neither of them could. Grantaire would be forced to live with his shame, and Enjolras would be forced to live with Grantaire. He could only imagine how awkward it’d be; he knew for a fact that Enjolras had little patience for his presence in the first place, accepted him into the group only because he was friends with most of the members, and now he’d screwed even that up. _He seemed to like you fine on the balcony though_ , a small, annoyingly optimistic voice in the back of his head said. _The balcony incident doesn’t count_ , he told it sternly. _He only stepped in out of some misguided sense of duty, that idealistic bastard. Besides_ , he thought, _that was before. There’s no coming back from this_. 

“Grantaire, I’m warning you!” 

“Coming, coming,” he muttered to himself. He took a deep breath and did his best to repress the incident, resolving to deal with it at a later time.

Courfeyrac began ranting at him the moment he stepped foot in the kitchen. 

“How many times have I told you to stop drawing on the eggs? How am I supposed to kill this nice man? What has he done to deserve this?” The egg Courfeyrac held up to his face, as if to underline his words, had a drawing of a plump man with a thick mustache, a bowler hat, and a wide smile, laughter in his eyes. Despite Courfeyrac’s obvious distress and Grantaire’s own _situation_ , he couldn’t help but to find it amusing. He shrugged, palms out. 

“Hey, at least this time it isn’t someone you love.” He struggled to hide his grin and failed spectacularly. But then again, he didn’t try all that hard. Courfeyrac seethed, and Grantaire quickly backtracked. 

“Okay, look, it was Jehan’s idea! They had me do it! I was just the middle hand, man!” 

“There’s always a choice, R,” Courfeyrac growled.

“Jehan! Get in here!” There was a hint of panic in Grantaire’s voice now, and he took a few steps back, but Courfeyrac mirrored him. His back hit the counter. Courfeyrac was still getting closer. 

Jehan strolled into the kitchen, grinning. 

“What’s up, guys?” 

“ _You_.” Courfeyrac’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you do this? Why do they have to die?!” He shook his fist with the egg towards them, his grip alarmingly tight. Jehan just stood there, arms crossed, waiting. Behind them Grantaire saw Combeferre and Feuilly, and the rest of their friends were gathering as well to see what all the ruckus was about. Involuntarily, he scanned the group in search of Enjolras. Combeferre and Feuilly, side by side, both looked equal parts amused and fed up. As Grantaire watched though, Combeferre’s expression softened, looking at Courfeyrac with adoration clear in his eyes. How Courf still didn’t get it, Grantaire didn’t know. Behind them, Bahorel was grinning like an idiot. And there, hesitantly walking up to the group, partially hidden behind Bahorel’s massive shoulder, was Enjolras. Grantaire’s stomach did a swoopy thing at the sight of him, still blushing, and he regretted just about every single decision he’d made since throwing the party. But he never could help himself, especially around Enjolras. He pushed it out of his mind and forced his attention on the scene in front of him. 

“It’s just,” Courfeyrac whined, “I don’t want to kill him. I _can’t kill him_. Look at that smile! Why does he have to die?” he asked, pleading. 

Jehan just smiled wistfully. “All life end.” 

“Lucky bastard,” grinned Grantaire. 

Courfeyrac threw his hands in the air. “Every time. Every time! I give up. No one gets pancakes, then. Happy now?” 

Loud protests erupted from the crowd behind Jehan. Grantaire took the egg from Courfeyrac, gently prying his fingers away and flashing a smile towards his friends. “I’ll whip something up. Don’t you worry ‘bout it, Courf. Combeferre, could you..?” 

“I’ll distract him,” the man nodded. “Come on Courf, won’t you catch me up on Drag Race? I missed the last episode.” He took his elbow and led him gently out of the kitchen.

“I guess…” said Courfeyrac weakly. 

Grantaire and Jehan grinned at one another. 

“So who wants pancakes?” he asked the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh thank you for reading! I'm not super happy with this chapter personally, but as I said I'm trying to just get it out there. The next one is my favorite yet, and Much longer, so stay tuned for that! Unfortunately for our boys, the day isn't over yet...  
> The boys are idiots, but they're my idiots. Overreacting-, poor impulse control-, lovely idiots <3  
> Also, like, the eggs? They would. You know? I feel it in my soul.  
> If you have any thoughts at all about this fic or this chapter, please let me know in the comments!! I'm thriving on attention. 
> 
> The playlist!!  
> This playlist is... well, it's perfectly logical to me. Some songs are there becuase the ~vibes~ are right for this fic, and others because I think the lyrics fit the story and the characters. Granted, some of the lyrics are in Swedish, but still. It's pretty much a complete mix of genres, but if you can, listen to it in order. It's Important™. Please let me know what you think of it!!! Love y'all, see you next time.  
> [playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2ou73nsgI0fVlDHojKWgUO?si=KSqEPk01QyqFmRuvsFPkJg)  
> [my tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/occasionally--lost)


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